


Calling

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Drug Addiction, Relationship Issues, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had decided back then that he was the strongest man I know. Looking at him now, obviously broken and hurting, I know it’s still true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling

“Is this Harry?”

“Umm, yes. Who is this?”

“I’m Anna. Look, I’m at Vertigo and your boyfriend here needs you, badly. He’s a right mess,” the unfamiliar voice tells me. 

“Boyfriend?” I ask before I can stop myself. Draco and I broke up three months ago. Technically, we’re on a break, seeing if we still want to try to make things work. That said, we haven’t spoken since the night we decided we needed to figure out what we wanted. There’s been no one else, unless you count a few one offs in clubs, which I don’t.

“Draco, I think he said his name is. Look, if he’s not yours, I’ll find someone else to come get him, but he was asking for Harry and your name was in his speed dial first, so I thought. Oh, damn, I’m making a right fool of myself aren’t I?”

“No, no, it’s alright. We’re not together anymore. Tell me where to find him. I’ll be there in half an hour,” I tell her, automatically pulling clothes on and going to retrieve him from a club in the middle of the night. A glance at the bedside clock reveals that it is two in the morning. 

“We’re outside, over near the stage entrance. I’ll stay with him until you get here. Poor guy’s a disaster.”

“Yeah, he’s not so good with the alcohol,” I tell her, hoping like hell that’s all he’s done. Draco has an alcohol tolerance that college kids the world over dream of. Unfortunately, he is also hell bent on going past it at every possible opportunity, and it never ends well. 

“About that, you might want to bring a bucket for the ride home. He’s a little green,” she tells me. 

“Got it,” I tell her, snagging a plastic bin from under the kitchen sink and lining it with a couple grocery bags. I head for my car and into the night, wondering why it was that I was so willing to go running to the boy who had managed to utterly and completely break me only a few months before.

The expressway is nearly empty at this hour, and it only takes me about twenty minutes before I am out of the car and heading towards the location I was given for finding Draco. He is, indeed, a fucking mess. He’s leaning against the wall, knees to his chest and arms clasped around them, forehead on his knees. He’s rocking slightly, and the thin girl beside him has a hand on his shoulder, telling him that I’ll be there soon.

“Dray?” I ask softly as I kneel in front of him. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

He looks up, glassy eyes focusing on mine for a millisecond before he lurches forward, clinging to me and burying his face in my shoulder. He’s slurring badly, but I can make out a whispered apology, repeated several times before I get a hand to his lips to silence him. 

“Shh, it’s alright, love. I’ve got you,” I tell him. “Let’s get you out of here.”

I thank the girl for calling me, for keeping an eye on him until I got there. Then I slip her a twenty, since in all honesty, I have no other way to thank her for staying with him and calling me. One look at him and I no longer care what happened the night everything blew up in our faces. He is an utter and complete wreck. Half dragging, half carrying him to the car, it’s clear that he’s lost several pounds that he could ill afford to part with. 

I get him in the car and buckled up, placing the bin in his lap and reminding him gently that if he feels sick he needs to aim for the bin. He’s curled up sideways in the seat, clutching the bin to his chest and still crying hard. I drive back to my apartment, keeping the window cracked to provide cool air for him and one hand on his back to try to offer comfort. By the time I pull in the parking lot, he’s stopped crying but is trembling violently, gulping and gasping as he hangs his head over the bin. 

“Think you can make it inside?” I ask him quietly. He shrugs.

“Alright. You hold onto the bin just in case and let’s see what we can manage,” I tell him, hauling him to his feet and being immensely grateful that my place is on the ground floor. I get him into the apartment and into the bathroom, settling him on the floor near the toilet. He kneels there, clinging to the toilet seat for a long while before his body arches and he unloads what sounds like a couple gallons of liquor into the bowl. I flush when he’s finished and get him cleaned up with a couple damp washcloths. 

“You good for now?” I ask him when I finish wiping up his face. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. I slip one arm under his knees and the other behind his shoulders, picking him up in a slightly awkward cradle hold. He wraps his arms around my shoulders and hangs on. I’ve done this before, carried his ridiculously drunk self to bed, but this time feels so different. Always before, it had been a matter of taking care of my partner, my other half. Three months apart and I’ve no idea what I am to him now. 

I get him settled in the bed and help him out of his club clothes and into pajamas. When I slip the shirt off him to exchange it for a loose cotton t-shirt, I am met with ribs that create an almost scary picture. His stomach is nearly concave, and even his shoulders are bony looking. “What have you done to yourself?” I ask quietly, reaching out to trace one bony rib. 

“Not so good,” he whispers. I don’t understand what he means, but I reach out to hug him close anyway. He sags against me, and I run a hand up and down his skeletal back, fingers tripping over ribs and vertebrae, his shoulder blades like jutting wings. 

“Do you think you can sleep?” I ask him. He nods against me. I pull away and change back into my own sleep clothes, before helping him into a shirt and sliding into the bed beside him. He is immediately curled up along my side, clinging and shivering. 

“Shhh,” I tell him when he starts to cry again. “None of that. We’ll talk in the morning. For now, just sleep.”

He nods, struggling to regain control. I hold him close and whisper comfort to him. Eventually, his breathing evens out and he settles into an uneasy sleep. We’re up several times in the night for him to be sick, and each time I hold him close until he is asleep again. By the time the sun rises, he’s sleeping soundly, in that place between puking drunk and hungover. 

“Harry?” His voice is ragged and very, very quiet. I can only imagine how confused he must be, waking up here of all places.

“You got yourself blitzed at Vertigo. Some girl called me to come get you,” I tell him. He’s still wrapped half around me, and I make no move to get away.

“Oh fuck,” he whimpers. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like getting hit by a truck would be preferable,” he replies. “Ugh, think I need to puke.”

I stand up, steadying him on his feet as we make our way to the bathroom. Now that he’s sober and I’m not worried about him managing to choke to death, I leave him to it, waiting in the bedroom for him. He emerges a half hour later, pale, sweaty, and truly looking pathetic. I tuck him back into bed, retrieving a cool washcloth for his head, which I’m sure is pounding by now. 

“Try to sleep through it,” I tell him softly, helping him swallow a few aspirin and a little bit of water. “I’ll stay with you,” I say, when he wraps a hand around my wrist and hangs on tightly.

I lie back down and spoon up behind him, crossing my arms over his chest. He squirms until he has his head tucked back against my shoulder, and finally settles down and relaxes. He’s shaking ever so slightly.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, and he nods against me, still holding tightly to my hands. “Do you want to talk? Or sleep? Tell me what you need right now, alright?”

“Can’t think,” he says. “Just want to be held.”

“I’m not letting go,” I tell him, and he nods again, still shaking a tiny bit. I know he’s fighting tears, but I don’t say anything. We might have ended in the world’s worst blowup, but I know him too well to not understand what he needs right now. I still love him too much not to give it to him.

We stay there for a long while before he whimpers and pulls away, stumbling back into the bathroom. I can hear him retching, and I try to convince myself that he is fine on his own, that we are not together anymore and that he does not need me to hold him while he’s sick. Then I hear the sobs. I’m across the room in seconds, hurrying into the bathroom and kneeling beside him, one arm across his thin back as he heaves and bawls, clutching the toilet with white knuckled hands.

I tug him backwards and flush the toilet as soon as he stops, wiping his tears and holding him close. “Shhh, shhh, it’s alright,” I assure him, wishing I’d thought to dampen a cloth for him before grabbing him. He’s crying hard now, arms wrapped around his skinny torso and head buried in my shoulder. He pulls away to vomit again and I stand at the sink, dampening a couple of washcloths for when he finishes. He’s down to largely dry heaves now, and when it’s over, I cradle him against me, a cool cloth over his forehead, one at his neck, as I mop up the sheen of sweat that covers his neck and arms. 

“Back to bed?” I ask him when he’s been quiet for a while. He nods, and I help him back to his feet. We resume our position on the bed, this time with him facing me and clinging to my shirt. 

He falls back asleep almost immediately, and I lay as still as I can so that he can rest. I know it’s his own fault that he feels so miserable right now. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to do anything I can to help him feel better. He’s so pitiful like this, weak and sick and sad. When he wakes the next time, he doesn’t let go of my hand when he crawls out of the bed, dragging me into the bathroom behind him. I stay with him until he is finished, and we go back to bed.

This time, though he is shaking from the exertion of being sick yet again, he does not cry. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Thank you, for coming for me.”

“Always. I told you I would come to you if you needed me. That hasn’t changed,” I tell him. “Do you feel up to telling me what happened?”

“Easier to show you, I think,” he says softly. “Where did my mobile end up?”

I go to get the small phone from the dresser, where I plugged it into the spare charger overnight. I hand it to him and he promptly pulls up his email, handing the phone back to me. I read the message he has opened, ice settling into the pit of my stomach. “Oh Draco,” I whisper, before wrapping my arms tightly around him. “I am so, so sorry, love.”

The email was from his father. Mr. Malfoy had disowned Draco when he was in college, vowing that he would not have a faggot for a son. It had nearly broken Draco, but he had managed to maintain contact with his mother, and through her at least still had a little family connection. Narcissa, the terse email informed, had died in a car accident. Draco was not welcome at the funeral.

Draco seemed to completely melt then, sobs rattling through his thin body. He cried for nearly an hour, and when he was finally cried out, he sat in my arms and shook. “I don’t have anyone now,” he whispered.

“None of that,” I tell him quietly. “You have me.”

“Like you’d still want me,” he says, his voice little more than a breath.

“Draco,” I tell him, trying to figure out how to say this. I decide there probably isn’t a good way to do it and just forge on. “I have always wanted you. I will always want you. If you’re willing to give this another go, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares at me, big grey eyes bloodshot and tear bright. He doesn’t say a word, just nods and clings to me, pressing tightly to my chest. He’s breathing too quickly, and I know that if I can’t calm him down and soon, he’ll hit full scale panic attack and there will be no choice but to try to ride it out. I try every trick I know, asking him to breathe with me, placing a hand over his mouth and nose to force him to hold his breath to break the cycle. In the end, I just hold him close, letting him tremble in my arms, breathing too fast and too shallow, every muscle of his body tensed impossibly tight. 

Eventually, he comes back to me, his breathing slowing and his arms and legs relaxing from their drawn up positions. I continue to rub his back and shoulders, whispering in his ear that I’m here, that I love him, that I’m not going anywhere. By the time he’s calm and back in control, he’s utterly spent. I ease him down onto the mattress, and hold him until sleep takes him under once more.

This time, I stay awake while he dozes. Watching him is almost painful. Even in sleep he whimpers, squirming and fussing as he sleeps. It’s late afternoon when he wakes, and I am sitting beside him, scrolling through emails on my laptop. One benefit of my job is that I mostly work from home. One definite down side is the sheer volume of correspondence that requires.

“Hey you,” I tell him when he stirs. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think,” he says. 

“Think you can manage some water or something?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. I go to get him a tumbler of cool water from the kitchen. I keep a pitcher in the fridge, but I know better than to try that. Extreme temperature change is not a hangover’s friend. 

He sips slowly at the water, drinking little more than an ounce before putting it on the bedside table and hugging his knees to his chest, breathing slowly and deeply. I can see the tiny beads of sweat crop up on his forehead. 

“It’s alright if you can’t,” I tell him. “It’s alright.”

He stares at me, swallowing repeatedly before giving up and disappearing into the bathroom. I feel awful for him, despite this being very much of his own making. When he comes back, he sits cross legged next to me, head on my shoulder and my arm around his back. 

“Feel up to telling me what you’ve done to yourself?” I ask him. The email was dated more than a week ago. Last night was definitely not the first bender he’s been on since, judging from how rough he looks. 

“I’m clean,” he whispers. “I swear I am.” With that he holds out both arms for inspection. I know I should trust him, but I look anyway. The spots on his forearms that he always favored are unmarked. When I’m finished, he puts his feet in my lap, and I feel along the insteps and up his ankles. He watches me, looking sad and lost.

He’s been clean four years now. I was there, was the one who held him through those first horrible days of withdrawal when he finally decided it was time. I was the one who held his hand as he flushed the last of his stash, held his head as he vomited for a solid week. It had been hell on earth for both of us, but he had made it through. I had decided back then that he was the strongest man I know. Looking at him now, obviously broken and hurting, I know it’s still true.

“Tell me what you did instead,” I say quietly. He looks awful. I trust him when he says there have been no drugs. Heroin was always his poison of choice; he never cared for much of anything else. I very much doubt that would have changed now.

“My apartment’s got more empty bottles in it than a frat house on Sunday morning,” he says, and I smile at his attempt at levity. “I’m not sure that I’ve had much in the way of food since it came. Everything comes up anyway so I quit trying after a while. Mostly just been there, drinking, crying like a little girl. Went out last night because I thought it might help. I took a two week leave at work, bereavement leave, you know, but I was just feeling worse the longer I stayed home. Thought maybe being out would be better. Nightshade was playing at Vertigo, figured if nothing else, some decent music to be had there, you know? There were some guys shooting up in the bathroom at the club, not like I’ve not seen it before but damn, fucked me but good. Ran up the tab from hell and then I fucking lost it. I blacked out for a bit, not sure what happened exactly. Next thing I know some girl’s out in the alley with me, asking if she can call someone for me. I’m sorry. I couldn’t, you were the only person, I, fuck, I needed you. I’ve pulled up your number a hundred times in the last week and chickened out every fucking time. I figured if you told her no, at least I wouldn’t have to hear it, right?”

He’s crying again, and I pull him bodily into my lap, holding him close and shushing him with a kiss. “I’m here now,” I tell him quietly. “I’ve got you now, I’m not going anywhere. I wouldn’t have said no. Not ever. I love you.”

He doesn’t speak, just hangs on like his life depends on it. I hold him, rocking him slightly when he starts to whisper that he wants his mom. I don’t have any words that could possibly help. My parents died when I was a baby, and I have no real memories of them. Draco has spent the last ten years having to speak to his mother only when she can be certain his father will not find out. She hasn’t actually seen him since before he got clean. 

When he pulls away, he’s gone utterly pale again. “Sick again?” I ask him. He looks at me as though I’m very, very dim before heading for the bathroom. I follow him, rubbing his back and coaxing water into him to try to ease the dry heaving for him. By the time his stomach settles back down, he’s given up trying to hold his head up, leaning on the toilet with his arms wrapped around it. 

“You finished?” I ask him, tugging him upward so I can flush the damn thing. 

“Just bring me a fucking blanket. I’ll just sleep here,” he whines. “So fucking tired of puking.”

“I think you’d feel better if we could get some fluids in you,” I tell him. 

“How exactly do you plan to go about that?” he asks me.

“Ice. I’ll go get you some ice to suck on. Less volume, less likely to turn your stomach,” I tell him. I remember this trick from those awful days of withdrawal. It had been the only way to get liquid into him. He nods his agreement, and I know he remembers as well.

“Do you think you can walk?” I ask him. He just stares at me. Definitely a no, then. I pick him up as I had done the night before, and he makes no move to protest. Once he’s in the bed again, I go to the kitchen for a little bit of ice and grab a wastebin. I drop the bin beside the bed and tell him if he feels sick to just puke in there. The running back and forth is exhausting him, and I’d rather he stay in the bed and get some rest. 

I rub the first ice cube along his dry lips, coaxing him to suck on it and swallow even a tiny bit of the liquid. It’s messy, and I end up with my hand cold and damp and his chin half frozen, but we manage. He rests against me, murmuring that he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to end up like this.

“Shhh, hush now my love. No one ever means to do this,” I tell him. “It’s just a nasty hangover, not the end of the world. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He murmurs his agreement, even though we both know this is more a result of a solid week of drinking and closer to alcohol withdrawal than hangover at this point. Either way, there’s really nothing for it but to muddle our way through. I get another ice cube, holding it for him as he sucks on it. He manages to finish it, but when I bring another to his lips he pushes my hand away. 

“Starting to cramp a little,” he whispers.

I move a hand to his sunken stomach, rubbing gentle circles on the skin, hoping that will help him settle. He nuzzles in closer to me, and I kiss his forehead. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. He nods and I continue rubbing his stomach as he drifts back to sleep once more. 

We spend most of the evening that way, and for the most part, he is able to handle the bits of ice. He vomits a few more times, but it’s less frequent and he’s able to sleep in between without as much discomfort. By the time night is fully upon us, he’s sleeping soundly and I slip away to have some food. I return to him still out cold, and slide into the bed beside him, wrapping my arms around him so that I will know when he wakes.

I am shocked when the next time my eyes are open it is past dawn. Draco is still curled up beside me, one hand brushing over my face, lips at my ear whispering my name. “Hey there,” I tell him. “Feeling better then?”

He takes a moment before responding. “Physically? Yes, I think my stomach is finished seeking revenge and my brain has stopped trying to escape through my eyeballs. The rest, fuck, I just want my mum. I didn’t get to say goodbye.” His lower lip trembles as he speaks and I wrap him up in a fierce hug, holding him there until he pulls back from me.

“So,” he says, his voice a little ragged but mostly steady, “Where do we go from here?”

“Your decision,” I tell him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I was an ass,” he says.

“Yes. So was I. Fair’s fair and all that, right? We said it was a break, not an end.”

“Can I stay here with you? I don’t want to go home.”

“We’ll have to go clean things up eventually. A week of you and every bottle you could get your hands on can’t have done good things to the décor,” I tell him. He nods, but otherwise just stays still and watches me.

“Think you can manage a little breakfast?” I ask him. “You’re practically skeletal, you know.”

“Something light? Toast maybe?” 

“Whatever you can handle,” I tell him. We make our way to the kitchen and I keep a steadying arm around his waist. He’s weak and shaky, and I worry about him hurting himself if he falls. Once he’s safely in a chair, I pop some bread in the toaster and set about making coffee for myself and a mug of peppermint tea for him. I’m no stranger to really awful hangovers, and I know his stomach will be a bit tender for another day or so at best. 

He picks at the toast, only consuming a few bites before pushing it away, looking a little green around the edges. He puts his head in his hands, elbows propped on the edge of the table and I can see him taking long, deep breaths trying to fight the nausea before he stands and wobbles his way out of the room. I put my coffee down and follow him to the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it down to drape across his neck. He sits next to the toilet, not leaning over it yet but clearly afraid to be far away. I wet another cloth and hand it to him. He mops at his face, looking miserable. A moment later he belches quietly, rising to his knees and hunching over the toilet. 

It doesn’t take long before what little he managed to consume comes up, and he chokes and coughs with dry heaves for a while afterwards before reaching up to flush the toilet. “I think I need to go lie down,” he whispers. 

I help him to his feet and get him back to the bed, tucking him in. “I’m going to go get you something to drink, love. We’ll start with that. You’re awfully dehydrated by now.”

“Mmm hmm,” he murmurs, and he sounds so tired that I just want to hold him and somehow make this go away. 

When I return with a bottle of Gatorade pulled from the back of the pantry, he has shoved the covers away and is curled up in a trembling ball, utterly drenched in sweat. 

“Talk to me,” I tell him softly.

“I hate this,” he whispers. 

“I know, love, I know. You’ll feel better soon. It’s just a really nasty hangover, that’s all. Your poor body has to punish you in some way for the last week, you know?”

I pull him upwards, propping him against me and bringing the bottle to his lips, dripping in a tiny amount of the liquid. “Good boy,” I tell him, as though he is a puppy. He doesn’t answer, and I give him a tiny bit more to drink.

“I’m going to hold onto you. I think the nausea might be better if I don’t lay you down,” I tell him. He shrugs, but makes no move to lie down. I continue to coax the Gatorade down him, giving him a few sips every few minutes. He’s mostly asleep, whimpering occasionally when I put the bottle to his lips.

“Shhh, you’re doing well, love. Just keep drinking for me,” I tell him. “If you feel sick, I’ll get the bin for you. Just keep drinking for now, gotta get some fluid into you.”

He’s had more than half the bottle when he grimaces and begins to take shaky, gulping breaths. Still holding him, I reach out and grab the bin, putting it in front of him. He wraps his arms around it, whimpering and shuddering as he tries to fight what his body so clearly wants to do. 

“It’s alright. Some of it will have absorbed. Let it happen,” I coax, rubbing his back in slow circles. 

He swallows a few more times, before he loses his battle with his stomach. Once he’s sure he’s finished, I go rinse out the bin. When I return, he’s asleep, and I pull the covers up over him to keep him warm. I glance at the clock, noting the late hour and go about my own evening routine, taking a quick shower and such. He’s still asleep when I return to the bedroom. I hate to wake him, but I also know that he needs to keep trying to get liquids down.

“Draco, love? I need you to drink a little more for me, then you can go back to sleep,” I tell him, patting his shoulder as I speak to him. 

“Please no,” he whines. “Already feel sick. No more, please?”

“You’ll feel sick either way. Just a few sips for me, and then we can sleep,” I tell him, and though he grumbles and whines, he props himself up on an elbow and accepts the bottle from me. He drinks an ounce or so before returning it to me. He’s asleep again almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. I stretch out beside him, one arm draped over his chest so that I will be sure to wake if he stirs.

The night passes in fits and starts. We’re up every couple of hours as he empties his stomach, but in between he is able to rest. By morning he is pale and tired, but the worst of it seems to have finally passed. He’s able to drink and keep down some weak tea and we spend much of the day on the couch, watching crap telly and dozing in and out against one another. I try not to think about how sharp and pointy his bones are as he leans into me. I know he does this when things get ugly, but it doesn’t make looking at the gaunt face and shaking hands any easier. 

As the sun begins to dip below the horizon again, I manage to coax him into drinking a blended concoction of almond milk and bananas, deciding that it’s probably best not to bother putting anything truly solid in him at the moment. He admits that it’s the first thing of any decent nutritive value he’s had since he got the email from his father. I hug him close and run my hands through his hair, reminding him quietly that we’ve gotten through hell together once, and we’ll do it again this time. He nods and closes his eyes, asleep again in moments and holding tightly to my shirt as he sleeps. We spend the night on the couch, and for once I don’t really care how uncomfortable I’m going to be in the morning.


End file.
